


A Bit of Spring

by Avice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Flowers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in love and almost buys flowers. John is confused until a good old fumble in the dark helps him see the light. </p><p>"Flowers were not on the list. John had no need for flowers. Sherlock, most definitely, did not need flowers. </p><p>Despite the flawless reasoning Sherlock proceeded to the check-out, sans flowers, somewhat reluctantly. He didn’t even know if John liked flowers."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of Spring

He felt ridiculous. It had been bad enough that he had offered to do the shopping, but this. This he could not get away with without arousing John’s suspicions. The man might be a bit slow, but he was not completely lacking in intelligence. 

Sherlock was, well, he hardly believed it himself, but yes, he was most definitely browsing bouquets of flowers at the supermarket. He looked back at the steps that had taken him there and, for the first time in his life, could not find logic in his own actions. 

He had been in the middle of an experiment, studying samples of mud from eight different crime scenes they had been on in previous cases, when John had asked whether he needed anything from the shop. It was uncommon enough that he had even heard John speak while immersed in his work, but the fact that he had actually got up and offered to do the shopping was surely worth a more substantial reaction than John’s amazed ‘Really? All right’ and a puzzled look. Abandoning his work (important) he had strolled smiling to the shop (menial and tedious). It made no sense.

And on top of that, here he was, wondering whether he should buy flowers. The answer, surely, was no. No, under no circumstances should he buy flowers. He had John’s favourite ale, he had remembered the milk, there were the pot noodles for John’s emergency meals and the toothpaste he had asked for. 

Flowers were not on the list. John had no need for flowers. Sherlock, most definitely, did not need flowers. 

Despite the flawless reasoning Sherlock proceeded to the check-out, sans flowers, somewhat reluctantly. He didn’t even know if John liked flowers. 

If nothing else, at least his theory was now confirmed. At first he had not been sure what the meaning of wanting to wear his best shirt for a quiet Sunday night in, or his recent unwillingness of calling John stupid was, but the flowers left no doubt about it: he was in love. 

What all the fuss was about, he couldn’t say. Did he find himself smiling involuntarily at John? Admittedly, yes. Did he feel a hot, burning rush, when John complimented his intelligence or when his hand brushed John’s on a crime scene? Fine, yes. Had he been ecstatically happy when John had finally returned home after having spent two whole days with his sister? He had. 

But were these _feelings_ really worth neglecting his work? Forgetting what he was doing when John’s blue eyes looked at him and going to the shop in the middle of an experiment? Unlikely. 

So when he got home and John complained about him having forgotten nearly half of the shopping, he felt relieved. Such negligence at the shop had to mean he had succeeded in occupying his thoughts with his work. 

What Sherlock failed to realise was that absent-mindedness was a sure sign of love and that he had, in fact, thought of John the whole time. It also took him a full half-second to remember why the kitchen was full of mud. 

To an outside observer Sherlock’s condition was hopeless, and it was clear that should he make another shopping trip, he would not manage to pass the flowers again. To John, however, the situation was troubling. It was clear to him that Sherlock was using something. The carefree attitude he had adopted lately, the near constant smile, the forgetfulness, the lack of interest in his work. It was as if Sherlock had taken up heavy pot-smoking. But John had kept an eye on him almost constantly, even setting an alarm at night to sneak downstairs to check up on him, and had seen no signs of the actual substance or its usage. 

While Sherlock had spent an inordinate amount of time at the shop, John had searched the flat, but found nothing. As things were, it was all the more troubling when Sherlock docilely sat back to his work and did not even seem to realise what John had been up to. Surely Sherlock would notice the disorder caused by John’s poking at the latest when he went for his sock drawer?

\---

The next morning didn’t bring any relief to John’s worry. Quite the opposite. Without mentioning the disarrangement of the sock drawer Sherlock arrived to the breakfast table (most unusual) showered, shaved and dressed (unheard of) and, as if that wouldn’t have been enough, he filled up John’s mug without asking when he finished his first cup of tea (words failed John). 

“Anything interesting happening in the world of football?” Sherlock remarked casually.

“All right!” John slammed his paper to the table. “That’s it! What are you on, Sherlock?”

“What do you mean?” the detective looked at him surprised.

“You are clearly using something stronger than nicotine. What is it and where is it?”

Sherlock frowned. It had been over a week since he had even had a patch on (two to be precise). He shrugged non-committally. Mostly he shared John’s sense of humour, but on rare occasions John’s crude joking failed to amuse him. Obviously he was not using drugs. A doctor surely would be able to tell.

“So… nothing? No games or wins or what have you?” he asked.

John stared at him. It looked like the man was serious.  
“Arsenal lost yesterday. Tottenham’s third in the series. Not bad all things considered.”

“And what series is that?” Sherlock chatted taking a bite of his toast.

What the hell was going on?

“That would be the Premier League.”

Obviously it meant nothing to Sherlock.

“The primary football competition in this country.” 

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded. He should look into this football thing. John clearly took an interest. 

After breakfast (for a second John worried that Sherlock might even offer to help with the clearing up, but luckily things weren’t as bad as that) Sherlock sat down to his microscope and mud samples. 

As things looked calm and under control John felt he could safely nip downstairs.

“Good morning, John,” Mrs Hudson pecked his cheeks. “How are you?”

“I’m worried about Sherlock.”

“What’s he done now?”

“He is on something. Drugs, that is.”

“Oh dear, and he seemed to be doing so well. Poor boy. And me never noticing anything,” Mrs Hudson sighed. “But I’m sure you know best.”

“He _offered_ to go to the shops yesterday. He _dressed_ for breakfast. He even asked me about _football scores_. He is generally in a _good_ mood,” John said as if the last observation really sealed the case.

Mrs Hudson laughed merrily.

“Nonsense, John. Is that all there is to it?” she smiled. “Sherlock is in love.”

John needed to sit down. 

“Excuse me? Love? You do know we are talking about my flatmate? The great detective Sherlock Holmes?”

“Don’t be silly, John. Sherlock has been in love for a while now. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed,” Mrs Hudson said with a knowing look. 

Sherlock in love. Letting it sink in, John had to admit that the symptoms did fit. Had it been anyone else he might have suspected the same.  
“With who?” he blurted.

“Goodness me, John,” Mrs Hudson smirked. “It’s not for me to say. These things must be left to take their own course. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”  
Shaking her head amused she added: “Now, mind you, I have to do a bit of hoovering and you better get out of my feet.”  
With that John was ushered back up the stairs.

Sherlock in love? It sounded ludicrous, yet it did explain a lot. 

But with whom? Sherlock never went out and the only people he saw were John, Lestrade and Molly. 

Molly? 

Lestrade? 

It had to be one or the other, but somehow the thought of either made John grumpy. Molly was far too ditzy for Sherlock and Lestrade… well. He was good-looking, that had to be admitted. Not nearly as stupid as Sherlock claimed. And they did share a passion for solving crime. 

John was suddenly in a very bad mood. He stomped up to his room and closed the door with more force than was necessary. 

The small bedroom and the empty white walls didn’t make him feel any better. He grabbed his coat and headed out. There was no need to keep an eye on Sherlock anymore. He didn’t need supervision from love. 

Damned Lestrade with his ex-wife. Of course that had been the trouble with his marriage. Women always have a reason for cheating, John thought crankily. 

\---

A long walk and a success in getting a date for the next night improved John’s mood. Granted, he had met Natalia only once four months ago and had failed to call her, but after five minutes of reminding she finally remembered who he was, and after another five minutes agreed to a dinner, if he was paying. Things were looking up.

Unfortunately finding Lestrade in their living room brought John back to his earlier surliness.

“A case?” he grunted managing the word in one peeved syllable. 

“Hullo, John. Yes. Three of them actually. But Sherlock here assures me they are all connected.”

John huffed.  
“Well, I hope it doesn’t take too long. I’ve got a date tomorrow,” he said.

“A date?” Sherlock exclaimed.

“A date,” John forced a grin on his face in affirmation. These two weren’t the only ones who could get a date if they wanted to. He was very datable too. He could fall in love too, dammit, if he took the fancy.

“Fine,” this time it was Sherlock’s turn to grunt.

A lover’s tiff? Lestrade wondered as he led the two gloomy men out of the flat and towards the crime scene. 

\---

“What?” 

“No!” 

“Wait…” 

“Hold this!” 

In the darkness Sherlock tumbled on top of John and the trap door closed behind them with a heavy clang.

“Marvellous. Bloody marvellous, Sherlock,” John puffed into what probably was Sherlock’s arm pit and pushed the man off himself.

Why did criminals always operate in abandoned underground tunnels or factories or utility plants? What was wrong with a comfortable modern office? John thought with regret as he took in their surroundings. 

That was perhaps too optimistic an expression. It was pitch-black, so there really was not much to take in. The only thing John was fairly sure of, was that they had fallen into one of the maintenance shafts and the way out was somewhere 13 feet above them. 

“Marvellous,” he repeated and kicked, well, something, “what now?”

Sherlock shuffled about the small space without speaking.

“Huh,” he finally said, “the way we came is the only way out. This shaft is approximately 14,2 feet wide and 12,98 feet long and my examination of it hasn’t provided us with a ladder.”  
He sat down.  
“We must wait.”

“Wait? For what?”

“I’m sure Lestrade will find us eventually.”

“Lestrade will find us,“ John gritted his teeth. “Sure. Of course. Lestrade is such a brilliant detective that he will just magically know where we are after you’ve once again done your best in making sure he will have no clue about the clues we have.”

“You left your phone in the car, didn’t you?”

John had to admit that that was the case.

“He will eventually pick up the signal and come looking for us.”

“Too bad you’ll miss your date,” Sherlock added prickly. 

“As long as _Lestrade_ charges in and saves us, I’m sure we’ll all be happy,” John grumbled.

They sat awhile in silence. Their breathing was the only sound in the empty space.

“Must have been an impressive meeting with Natalia four months ago. Couldn’t wait to see her again, could you?” Sherlock spoke at last.

If the situation had not been so grim, John would perhaps have been surprised that Sherlock had bothered to find out the details of his date. As it was, he resigned to the reality with a sigh. 

“Fine,“ John confessed, “I barely remember what she looks like,”. 

He couldn’t see Sherlock’s relieved smile in the dark, but something in his posture changed and his hand moved a bit closer to John’s. Their palms were now almost touching, only a tiny fraction of air between them. 

The darkness was heavy with Sherlock’s scent wrapping itself around John. Sherlock’s presence so close, making John sweat. His throat was dry, the coat too hot in the airless space. With a jerk he took it off and folded next to himself. As if by accident his hand slipped behind Sherlock’s back, his palm lightly pressing on it. 

John closed his eyes. It was dark. His hand felt heavy, electrified against Sherlock.

John pulled Sherlock close, hand fumbling for Sherlock’s face. Tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips. John could just make out the light in Sherlock’s eyes as he kissed the luscious, gorgeous lips. The soft feel of them made him shiver. Perfect lips. Perfect kiss. 

Sherlock sighed quietly into his mouth; lips hesitating, uncertain, so unlike Sherlock himself. Their tongues brushed shyly. 

Sherlock’s hand wandered clumsily along John’s arm, not knowing where it should stop, at last settling on the back of John’s neck. 

Their mouths explored each other, fingers tried to find skin. 

John smiled, it felt so right. Why had he never thought of it before? Their foreheads together John pecked Sherlock’s lips slowly.  
“What about… Lestrade?” he asked.

“Lestrade?”

“Aren’t you… I thought you were… with him…?” he mumbled. 

Sherlock burst out laughing.  
“Lestrade? Ridiculous, John. The man’s an idiot.”

So am I, thought John tucking Sherlock’s lip between his, biting it gently. No wonder Mrs Hudson had found his questions funny. Sherlock’s grip on his neck tightened.

He pushed John to lie on his back, got on top of him. His usually nimble fingers were suddenly clumsy, not knowing what to do, not sure how to touch. He wanted to… wanted to… he did not know what. He wanted John. Frustrated he pressed himself against John. 

John pushed back, bucking up against Sherlock. Their hands aimlessly stroking, trying to touch, searching for a way closer to skin. John was the quicker one, pulling Sherlock’s shirt up to get his hands on Sherlock’s torso, his back. Cursing with excitement. Sherlock tore off his long coat, hot lips on John’s neck. Their movements were now determined, bodies knowing what to do. 

“Well, where the bloody hell are they then?” a loud voice, right on top of them. 

John and Sherlock froze mid-movement. They laughed quietly, nervously into each other’s mouths. 

Sherlock got up, pulled John along. A soft kiss. 

They rearranged their clothing the best they could in the dark. 

“Down here!” John shouted. 

\---

Coming home the fully lit living room felt like a stage. John closed the curtains. He hesitated, unsure what to do next. Not quite sure whether to believe what had happened before. 

They had talked very little on the way home, stared out of the windows and listened to the blabber of the PC on the wheel. 

Lestrade had had them followed, having had enough of Sherlock not sharing. It had not taken his team long to realise something was off, as their quarry had emerged from the building laughing. 

If John had doubted Sherlock being in love, he was sure to believe it now: how else would Lestrade’s men be able to follow Sherlock without him noticing?

Or had Sherlock noticed? The suspect had been caught with this method as well…

“Tea? Tea,” John concluded busying himself in the kitchen. 

Sherlock picked up his violin. What would happen now? Tea? Really? He wasn’t one to rely on John’s better judgment, but in this case he had no previous experience or knowledge on how to handle the situation, so he tuned the instrument and started playing. Hopefully John’s chosen course of action would lead to his pants soon. 

John brought a cup to the table next to him and sat down. 

It was as if he could finally see Sherlock properly: openly admire the stern face softened by the dark curls, appreciate the focused blue eyes and, dear god, lust after the fantastic body – tall, lean, strong. 

He could not wait any longer. Whether a case of mistaken identity in the dark or just a hallucination, he would go for it. 

John got up, went over to Sherlock, put hands on his waist and pulled him close. Sherlock put the violin down, slid it in its case. 

Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, John caressed his chest, stroked his arms. Sherlock nodded, a tiny movement of the head. Yes. John did not hesitate anymore. 

He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck, a strong, demanding hold as he pressed their lips together. Hungry, greedy for Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock opened his lips, let his tongue in, pulled him close. 

It would happen. John knew what to do.

Sherlock’s clumsy strokes on John’s back turned John on like nothing before. The caresses found a way under John’s shirt, pulled it up, over his head. 

A brief second for their lips to part. 

John trembled as Sherlock’s hands touched his bare back. Never had he waited for a touch for so long, so desperately, without even knowing how much he needed it. Sherlock winced, smiled as John bit his lip. 

John’s fingers scrabbled with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt and then, at last, he kissed the muscular chest. Licked it. Grazed his teeth along the lines of the tight muscles, holding on to Sherlock as his head tilted back, body pushed itself towards John. Whatever John would want would be given willingly, gladly. _Take it, John. All of it._

The hard line of Sherlock’s cock pressed on John’s stomach. Unbuckling Sherlock’s belt with almost shaking fingers, John cursed quietly, opened the zip and pushed the trousers and undies down. Sherlock gasped. _It’s all yours._

A wet drop glistened on the tip of his cock. A glorious cock, as perfectly proportioned as the rest of him.

John stroked him. His other hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, holding him steady. How gorgeous he looked. The lush red of excitement on his lips, cheeks. His eyes unfocused, hazy.

“You’re beautiful,” John sighed. 

He pushed Sherlock onto to a chair, knelt down in front of him.

Sherlock moaned with excitement and nervousness. John would do it, take him. Give him everything.

John leaned down. Hand stroking Sherlock’s cock he slowly licked the tip. Just to see what it felt like, what it tasted like. 

Delicious. 

He opened his mouth, wrapped his lips tightly around Sherlock’s cock and sucked. 

Sherlock’s fingers tore his hair, trying to hold on to something, trying to find something steady. It was of no use. As John’s mouth pulled him deeper, the tongue pressing lightly on his glans, all was lost. 

He fell into an abyss of piercing light, soundless music. The world spun around him and was gone. All perfectly still, all perfect. His body was used, empty. Finally complete.

“Jesus,” he heard John mutter somewhere in the blurred reality; heard a familiar sound. 

What was it? 

Of course.

He opened his eyes. John was sitting opposite, looking at him and jerking his hard cock. 

Sherlock did not want to miss out on this. Falling to his knees he crawled over to John and pressed his face against John’s groin. 

John took his hand, guided his fist around his cock. 

A tight, fast hold. John looked amazing. So close to coming, wanting him, needing his touch. 

Sherlock kissed him. Felt a small tug, a hot burst on his hand. 

Letting go of John’s cock, he put his arms around him, held him close. 

_This is it. Love._

\---

It was a week before Sherlock was in the shop again. He needed a bit of nicotine for a puzzle he had. Without thinking, he picked up tulips before leaving. John would like a bit of spring in the flat.


End file.
